Death to Bellatrix Lestrange
by BestSkeptic
Summary: Oneshot. On a raid of the Malfoy Manor, Remus knows that Nymphadora Tonks can handle herself without his help, but he's got a bone to pick with Bellatrix Lestrange.


"Please stay near me."

"Remus, I'm a big girl, I don't need your protection. And besides, this is my job."

The werewolf sighed and rubbed his temples. Always the thoughtful one, he conjured the response least likely to get him hexed–or sleeping on the sofa for the next month. "Of course you don't need my protection. You're one of the strongest, most brilliant, most independent women I've ever had the great fortune to meet." He inhaled to speak more, but she interrupted.

"And beautiful?" She shot him an innocent smile, pulling on her cloak.

"And beautiful," he conceded. "So you can see why I'd be mildly concerned, then?"

"You don't have to worry about me, love," she assured him, and kissed his nose.

"You're right, I don't have to, but you know I will."

"Mhmm. You ready?"

"Dora." He looked at her with pleading eyes.

She grasped his gnarled hands in her own and looked at him encouragingly. "I'll be careful."

"That's all I needed to hear."

No sooner had they arrived at the Malfoy Manor than had the battle begun. Severus forewarned them, of course, for good measure, but he did the Order the favor of waiting until the very last appropriate moment. Remus had secretly hoped for something along the lines of, "Hey guys, guess who I just saw outside in the garden," but knew his wish was almost childish. War was especially unkind to double-agents. He could understand that.

The Death Eaters made their first mistake in sacrificing their front lines. Put all the inept ones out first, sure, and you'll manage to tire the enemy a bit, but in doing so, you render them useless. It was simple military strategy. Make use of your weak.

He effortlessly picked off a great number of the weaker wizards. It seemed too much like a game to be war, and watching Dora beside him doing much of the same, he wondered if he had been too presumptuous in his warnings. But he knew it was just a facade; there was much more to come.

And it pained him to see children–former students of his–succumbing to familial pressures, to quotas and expectations, and to die for it. Indeed, most of the first sent out were young–too young–he thought. They believed blindly and voraciously, and they paid the price. All he had done to try and change it was futile, and it saddened him.

He got so caught up in his own thoughts that he failed to realise he was no longer fighting back-to-back with Nymphadora. He had a sinking feeling the enemy would start bringing out the big guns soon, and all he wanted was to be beside her, to protect her to the best of his abilities. It wasn't some chauvinistic ambition, unless you could call love a chauvinistic ambition.

It took him at least a quarter hour to spot her, and what he saw did not please him, to say the least. She was fighting on a ledge, balanced in the only act in which grace would become her. Her wand outstretched, she was the epitome of agility, and on its opposite end was the wand tip of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Wotcher, Auntie!" Red light grazed Bellatrix' shoulder, and she winced with pain, but continued to fight unfazed.

"You... You're no niece of mine!" the older woman shouted, and sent sparks in Dora's direction, but she skillfully deflected them. At this, Bellatrix seemed incensed. _"BLOOD TRAITORS! YOU AND YOUR MOTHER, THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE! AND THAT'S WHAT YOUR COUSIN WAS, TOO!" _Her passionate rhetoric was quickly aborted with yellow slash marks sent in her direction. She seemed hurt, but managed to utter, "Well, that's what he was before I was through with him." Sounds of her maniacal laughter followed.

White hot anger infiltrated his veins and he remembered. He remembered the deranged woman's scream after murdering the last of his brothers. He remembered holding Harry back, as was reasonable and fatherly, despite his pleas, when all he wanted to do himself was to run to the veil, to reach for Sirius, to somehow find a way to bring him back. He remembered the pain that ensued, pain deeper than that of any battle scar. He remembered the emptiness that was his life thereafter.

Bellatrix Lestrange wouldn't take Nymphadora, too. Not her. Not the only person left he ever gave a damn about.

"Sorry, Dora," he whispered under his breath to no one in particular, recalling her requests to be taken seriously. He drew his wand, aimed with precision, and shouted behind fiery eyes, _"Avada Kedavra!"_


End file.
